Hundred Stone
by Shambhalasoulful
Summary: Perhaps she will meet him again, the one called Akifusa with the white hair and the kind smile and the gray-streaked heart.


**A/N**: Where this came from, I have no idea, but I hope you all enjoy! Feedback is always appreciated.

**Warning(s)**: Possible spoilers if you have not reached Chapter #187 of the manga.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own _Nurarihyon no Mago_. Hurts more every time I type it.

_Special note_: The name _Momoishi_ can be translated to mean "Hundred Stone."

* * *

The sound of clanging metal is strange. It echoes through this dank cavern with the toll of cracked bells; beautiful, if only for the death that permeates this place.

She can always hear the whine of spirits, the calls of the angry and the hateful and the forlorn. They beckon to her, _Take us, take us, allow us the ability to speak again!_ And she ignores them, always ignores them, even as her heart yearns to help and her soul cries out for peace.

Somehow, this man with the sound of cracked bells has quieted them, if only slightly.

She has never seen a man quite like him before. Those of the Gokadoin House are a valley of mottled ambitions, each more ruthless than the last. But this man, this Akifusa, is different. His aura is foreign to her, clear and kind and comforting. She enjoys standing near him, feeling his spirit waft around his moving form like ripples on the water.

It suits him, she thinks. His aura resembles him in a strangely satisfying way. It is serene, lucid… and beautiful.

She has never used such a word to describe a man before, but she believes it fits him rather well.

When she delivers his meals to him at dawn and dusk, he smiles graciously and wipes his brow with a soot-covered hand, and she studies each movement with curiosity. How can a man's hands be so pale and slender, yet harness the strength to bend metal to their will? How can a man's voice sound so gentle and cool, like the balm she prepares from the mountain's scarce vegetation? How can the red of his eyes, so similar to the hue of those angry souls, reflect such compassion for her, a woman who is the ally of his enemy?

She doesn't know the answer to any of these things, but she wishes to find out, one of these days.

As the weeks pass, he tells her of his home on the ground, in the city she's never seen, in a territory she's never walked. Over the clangors of hammer and metal, he speaks fondly of his family, his brothers and cousins and uncles, and the young sister whom he clearly cherishes. She wonders if these family members all have the same white hair that hangs down his back, like the clean silk of the Gokadoins' robes.

She wonders why his lucid aura dims slightly whenever those precious people are spoken of, as if clouded over by shadows.

Even the moon has a dark side, she decides. She learned long ago that nothing, neither black nor white, is truly pure. There will always be shades of gray hidden, waiting to be uncovered, by choice or by force.

She's starting to believe that this man is no different; he is as gray-streaked as all the creatures who have climbed this mountain, seeking a purpose, or in his case, atonement.

As a speaker of the dead, she knows about the darkness of regret. On this mountain, where the Fear is thick and truculent, one cannot allow himself to fall too deeply into desolation.

Perhaps that is why she finds him so fascinating. Though he is clearly unaccustomed to the air's headiness, she has never seen him falter. And perhaps that is why she insists that he rest, knowing he will decline with the same kind smile.

She does not wish to see the darkness of this place consume him, as it has so many others.

"Momoishi-san?"

She comes back to herself with a start, and regards the man next to her. He looks at her inquisitively, his soot-drenched hair tied back from his neck and a questioning quirk on his pale lips. She suddenly remembers.

"Oh! The tea." She grabs the pot next to her along with a small ceramic cup; the green liquid pours into the well cold. With the heavy heat of the forge, hot tea seems rather redundant.

She goes to give her companion his drink, but stops midway. His hands are black, swathed in ash and dust, and she shakes her head and places the cup aside before rising to her feet. Akifusa watches her, perplexed, and looks down; with wide eyes, he scrutinizes the state of his hands, and smiles sheepishly when she returns with a washcloth.

"I apologize. I didn't realize how unkempt I had become."

"Not unkempt," she says, taking those slender hands and rubbing the cloth over his skin. "Dirty." With a moment of scrubbing, the fairness of his hands becomes visible, and she scrubs slightly harder to remove the soot from the crevices between his long fingers.

He laughs at her quiet frankness, a soft, smooth thing that resembles something like the deep twine of the musical strings that Taisei-dono once told her of. "You have me there."

"You have greater responsibilities at present. It's no trouble." With a last stroke to his knuckles, she returns his hand to him and presents him his tea before pouring her own. "How is the sword progressing?"

"Well, I think. I'm still unsure as to whether I can surpass Hidemoto's craft, but I won't know until I've done my all." Akifusa takes a small sip, brows furrowing in contemplation.

"Who will this weapon go to?" She watches his thought process, sees the cogs turning as he studies the swirling liquid in his cup. He smiles.

"A former ally. He is a friend of my sister's, actually."

She blinks. "Your sister? Wouldn't that make him rather young?"

Her companion laughs again. "Yes, it would, and he is." His brow furrows again, and that shadow descends over him again. "For us to depend on one so young to save us all…" He shakes his head and places his cup on the ground. Rising to his feet, he offers his hand, and she clasps it and allows him to lift her to her feet.

"Thank you, Momoishi-san, for the meal, but I should return to the forge." That smile is back on his lips, but it's false; it sits wrongly in her, but she stays silent, only nods and flushes slightly when he encloses her hand in his and bows respectfully before climbing back to his cavern, where he will remain until she brings his next meal.

She sighs inaudibly and turns her gaze to the invisible skyline. In her mind, the spirits begin clamoring again, filling her ears with desires she cannot fulfill.

Once, Taisei-dono related her name to the stones of the mountain. Destined to remain here, forever encased in the lava that ran down its sides so long ago.

She hears the resounding clang of cracked bells, sees the sparks fly from the cave entrance like midday fireflies. She knows she will have to coax him into respite again, else his mind and body fail him in exhaustion.

She finds herself strangely content with the knowledge that she is responsible for his well-being, at least until his obligation is met.

Perhaps she _is_ like the boulders dotting this dead landscape by the hundreds. Perhaps she _will _stay here, after the war has ended, after the souls have departed, after the man in the cavern has returned to his home and family on the ground.

Or perhaps she will take the stones of her name and create footholds, steppingstones to cross the Sanzu River and traverse to the world below that she has never seen. And perhaps, at the bottom of that venture, she will meet him again, the one called Akifusa, with the white hair and the kind smile and the gray-streaked heart.


End file.
